Through the Looking Glass
by Nhit
Summary: A journey into the mind of Esdeath/Esdese when finally captured.


Through the Looking Glass

I don't the rights to AGK or anything else

A look into the mind of Esdeath in a given setting, if things went a certain way.

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><p>Reflecting on my past doesn't have much time, soon they'll take me to the gallow's pole. Sitting with my legs crossed on the metal bench, I move up and stand, hands, arms through the bars. The bench is very cold and hard, but that's not why I moved, I don't care about that. I'm restless, but I'm not looking forward to- or excited about- what happens next like I usually am, how could I be? Strangely, in a paradox, my eyes are dragged towards meaningless radiance. The nearby torchlight fights against its surroundings even though the effort is futile, because eventually it too, runs out of fuel, maybe just like me. Nevertheless, in defiance, the flames both create and destroy shadows across the vast gray enclosure as they burn away. The only movement is the flickering of the flames. My breathing and the flames are rhythmic.<p>

I'm only here because I was too weak, nothing else... Simply that. I was defeated because I wasn't powerful enough. That lack of power was stemming from either inadequate strength or inadequate wisdom. It doesn't matter that if I was was outnumbered by a copious amount to begin with, it wouldn't matter if I was fatigued to the point of being helpless, it was my actions that led to such a point of being helpless. After all, the weak being surpassed by the strong is only the natural process of the world. Some day the new become the old and are swept away. Gradually or suddenly, the old make way for the new. I just became inferior to my surroundings. The last time I was inferior to my surroundings was when I was a child and my parents were slaughtered like animals. To be coddled and protected, embraced in the warmth of my dearest mother and father was the most blissful feeling that there was. Though children do develop a sense to be free and not restricted by the embrace of the parents. I'd tell mother and father "No, I don't need your help, I can do it on my own!" When it came to defending myself, I wanted to grow up to be the strongest in the world, someone that everyone would admire, that my parents would respect, I wanted to be able to do that alone, and as part of the duality of not wanting my parents to protect me, being strong enough without them, I also still wanted to be protected by my parents. I wanted them to be there. Then they were ripped away from me. That's when I was fragile, more feeble and powerless than those around me. It all happened so long ago.

If I can't defeat the entire world without rest, it is because I am too weak. I searched everywhere for stronger opponents, I spent so many years destroying everything in my path to better myself, I defeated many and annihilated the rest. Until now. Why wasn't I strong enough? I tried to be, it wasn't enough. Trying and deserving something doesn't end up equating to reality, but I already knew that...

Footsteps, echoes, quite a few of them, louder and louder. Here we go. Adrenalized, my energy soars, but I don't let it show.

"Pull your hands in. Come on, it's about to begin." A sergeant commands.

"Why do you tell people to pull their hands in?" Asks someone on the sergeant's left

"Because of safety reasons. It wouldn't be the first time a prisoner has messed with themselves or the guards, resulting in wounds and injury. Also, if I chain them with their hands through the bar they aren't going to be able to leave." Replied the sergeant.

"She didn't have anything to eat? For her last-" asked the same guard incredulously.

"Looks that way. Not that I'm surprised, I don't know about you, but I didn't take her for someone that would have needed food in this situation."

"I see..." Followed by a gulp.

The cell door creaks open. I do as told. I'm unable to break out of the surroundings and escape. Anti-imperial arms drugs are a bitch, so are the larger squad detail that follow me around to prevent such an escape attempt. That band's presence was easy enough to read.

The black handcuffs click as they lock into place over my wrists. Walking down these stone halls as the prisoner was a different perspective. Was it just the positioning? No, everything seems different and it's not simply because I'm in chains. I barely pay attention to anything, I'm walking, but I'm a hallow shell of my former self. My head hangs lower than usual.

Time slows down, I speed up, thinking becomes supercharged. Time is slow but it's also very fast, too fast, because it's escaping me and not ceasing. That's the opposite of what I need, I need it to pause. I need more time. I'm desperate for the time to process everything. But would having more time help?

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Why do I care? I don't care. I don't mind dying... right?

It's unfortunate that people don't understand they're lying to themselves. The only reason they can pretend to be civil and gossip about meaningless things is because me and others handle the dirty work, so that they don't have to. Everyone else deems it bad, uncivilized, savage, evil, but why? How is that evil when it keeps happening? Instead of facing the truth that humans are inherently cruel, people pretend to care about the intelligence of human kind when in reality most of what the majority bide their time with is gossip, as well as being grotesquely dramatic and listless with life. No end in sight, no goal except a carrot at the end of a stick, no intelligence. Instead of that, I charged life head on, and for it I was deemed incorrect, I was deemed wrong. Preposterously, people like living a life based on a lie rather than the truth. The ideas of society are too convenient not to blindly trust. That's why people continue to be the way they are and condemn me. Even though without violence, humans have no steering and excitement in life, they resort to their more animalistic natures of making enemies in their life so their life has some purpose, but social enemies, civil enemies. People need someone evil, they need chase, but they give no thanks to the hunted as the hunter. No recognition of purpose as the hunted.s

Countless scenery passes me, the backdrop yells out for me to pay attention, but I can't, I don't have the luxury to do so. I don't care about what I think are the tiles, walls or pictures passing me, I have tunnel vision. Anything I see that isn't right in front of me is in the land of imagination. Quickly forgotten if perceived.

A few rooms, then the halls before the front desk of the building, and then the entrance room. Stuffed animals presided in the corners and on parts of the wall, offering something besides simply nothing, an animal being captured was fitting for a prison.

I don't even remember the last room, I'm too wrapped up in my own thing. Which is not the only thing I'm wrapped in. Why am I thinking about not being aware? It's all going to end and my last thoughts will be "I don't remember the color of the wall I was next to a moment ago." Which isn't very dignified and seemingly out of place. That's a way to go. How terrible. I continue, guard detail following. We walk down the road, our shadows tall.

A man once said that everyone who is intelligent cannot help to avoid eventually realizing that life itself is futile, that living life is trying to avoid the admittance of futility. I didn't think about it much, I'm not a philosopher, most of my time is spent studying the art of war, of combat, the dance of death, or more tangible, real subjects, not abstract ideals, but that philosopher's belief didn't disagree with me. Whether life had no meaning or it did, or the meaning was whatever the person wanted, the only thing I cared about what proving I was the strongest, playing my little games on the side, some would call me bloodthirsty, evil. but even if I do have bloodlust, I'm fine with it. So what if I play with my prey? They were defeated by me, as a cat plays with what they catch, so do I. That was my meaning. Life without violence is peace of the dull, unaware, uneducated and submissive. How could anyone who understands battle call it anything but fascinating and the ultimate conclusion as life's art? Fighting is the energy of life, with adrenaline and excitement you don't even feel the pain. Despite believing that, I don't know why I'm not myself, I don't know why I'm hesitant. Maybe it's just apprehension, maybe it's the denial of death, maybe it's that I don't believe what I once did... Did I change?

Once we reach the outside I'm surprised. A long, tightly closed line of soldiers at ready were acting as security. Both for me and the townsfolk, so the people didn't interfere. The two lines of soldiers continued out of view, empire flags were placed evenly among both rows in a calculated manner. The soldiers all had perfect formation, stance, weapons and regalia. All perfectly taken care of, pristine. The armor was new, cutting edge, I haven't seen it before in any of the squadrons before, it's dark, black and fully metal armor, mostly plate. That has to be really expensive, most soldiers didn't have full plate armor, and most soldiers even with some pieces of plate armor weren't as new-age or ornate as this. This armor seemed like many well forged weapons, beautiful and ready for battle. Well, at least they'll give me a nice, clean ceremonial death. A hint of a smile approaches my lips only to fade in the grip of calamity and the stronger feelings of catharsis. Did I calmly accept death without a fight?

Suddenly a white, red streaked bandana is dragged across the walkway by an abrupt wind, circling in the middle, dangling in senseless articulation for a moment before completing the destined course out of the field, out of sight. I continue walking. The path has turns in it, fortunately spanning more than just a few blocks.

In the turmoil of everything coming to me at once, a thought hits and entraps. I use to overhear people claiming that the thing which most people say before they die is that they regret, they have anguish and heartache, they wanted to do more or set things right, they should have done the right thing instead of the wrong thing, but they didn't. In their final moments of being allowed to say absolutely anything, the thing they say is that they have remorse. Instead of deciding the right thing while they lived, or saying something to set another thing right for wrongdoings, they just say they have sorrow for what they didn't do. People put themselves in such a fix. I lived my life without grief, though it's not as if I was influenced by anyone, certainly not people beneath me, no... I just didn't want to regret anything so I followed my heart. I wasn't lying to myself was I? Am I lying to myself? Do I regret? Despite killing and having my life at risk countless times before, I never had my life flash before me or recall so many memories and experiences before, but it's happening now. If I could write down everything I'm feeling right now and articulate it, even my life story, would it matter, or would it just be the memoirs of the broken?

I use to have silence in my mind, but now there was too many voices. In a frenzy, too many thoughts and ideas came to mind, going every which way. I'm nearing the end of the street, soon I'll be out in the open with the stairs to the execution.

Marching along the dirt with small dust clouds forming, I glance at the scores of surrounding people. My high brass white clothes are the polar opposite of them. The mass is loud, it's too difficult to hear anything specific, I hear some things, but maybe that's just me thinking they're saying it, it's really difficult to hear even the people in the front of mob. But they probably don't have much to say anyways. The sun burns into me, demanding answers, trying to make me match the arid intensity or avert my gaze as someone more frail would do. There is no wind. Before I want to admit it, I reach the steps, urged to the platform. One step, this is happening too fast, one step more, my final moments are too much to take in, one step again ends my course, that's the last time I ever walk. Sun at my back, I stand still, looking out across the last scene I'll see. I've seen battalions, but this is the largest crowd I've ever seen. Soldiers are different.

Offsetting me, the executioner stands impassive. I'm standing right before the noose.

I clench my teeth. I wanted to be more than a grain of sand worn into nothing by the vastly larger world. I wanted my legacy to mean more but I proved insignificant, I'm nothing but a small speckle that lived for the briefest moment in time, dwarfed- into something more thin and weightless than a glimpse of an idea- to an infinite amount by the holistic ideas of time and space. A speck that was quickly washed over by many more examples, a particular example of common rudimentary indifference, no real change made, no distinguishable traits or parts. Soon I'll be forgotten. In history, I won't even be remembered as something that mattered. And... I died to insects that were beneath me, but I don't have anyone to blame but myself. I could become stronger and more wise. If I was stronger... but I'm not. If I was smarter, but I'm not. This wouldn't have happened. I can't take back what I've done, what if I did things differently? What if I was different?

I gulp. How long has it been since I've felt like this? My emotions are ineffable. I'm so angry, sad and frustrated. My words escape me when I think to speak, tears flow but why am I crying? I'm not afraid of dying, don't I believe there was only the end? But if there's someone, why have they let me go?

I don't know how long the crowd has turned deathly silent.

I wonder if the revolutionary army has established this executioner speaker or he's actually from the Empire before the rebellion army took over. Though it doesn't mean anything either way.

A stray, wind guided page flashes by- just within reading distance at the right angle. A quick glance reveals the lines to a well known nursery rhyme.

"_Row, row, row your boat_

_gently down the stream_

_merily, merily, merily, merily_

_life is but a dream."_

If only it was.

The man opens his mouth, lots of formalities, long sentencing and charges. And in an instant, the end is near, for both the scroll and me. I feel the void, my whole life has been destroyed, do I refuse it? The executioner braces himself with movement.

I'm thinking but I can't think. I can't articulate anything. From the fear of not being able to think, I can't think, that's all I can think about. I'm frozen.

Everything I've ever done has led me to this point... right here... right now.

The man speaks the final words.

"General Esdeath, on order of the Empire, you are hereby..."


End file.
